What they whisper
by wearwind
Summary: Rome is restless, and people are not blind. They see. They talk. They whisper about their white-robed ghost. Taking place during AC:Brotherhood, from the perspective of a common Roman, no spoilers to the main story.


_Set during AC:Brotherhood. No spoilers, focusing on how Ezio's actions in between the main quest may have been perceived by the Romans. _

I saw an assassin today, mom. With his white armour and deep hood, he looked like a man taken right from the old tales Granny used to tell. He climbed right up to the old pigeon loft in the ruins and whistled – and a pigeon flew down to him and sat on his wrist. They looked like a pair of birds talking to each other; only the assassin was much more predatory. Like an eagle who'd decided that for a passing moment he'd be domesticated.

Then the assassin took the piece of parchment off the pigeon's foot, looked at it and smiled – I only saw his lips curving beneath the deep hood. I wonder how he sees anything in that thing. It was exactly how people always talk about them: white robes, deep hoods, hidden daggers, and when you blink, they're gone. I didn't see him go. He just disappeared just like that – in one swift movement jumped off the loft and that was it. Anyone I know would surely break both legs falling from this height, but he didn't even stop to catch his breath. This must be the way he usually moves.

Witchcraft? I don't know, mom. They say he's a son of the Devil himself; but I've heard he's from Florence. He wore a coat with Florentine lilies – red and gold, not shiny enough to attract attention, but a subtle reminder of where he comes from. They say he suffered a great loss, and then came to take the lives of these who killed his kind; but if that doesn't make him human, what can? He is always young in these stories; the man I saw was at least thirty. Surely demons don't age.

He looked so calm on this pigeon loot. So serene and peaceful, and powerful at the same time. Like a great noble bird of prey. I can't believe he could be all these terrible things heralds say – that he's a murderer of the children, burglar and heretic, the enemy of the people that must be hanged for his crimes. He didn't look like that. I know, mom. They never do. Maybe the Borgia are right. We probably don't need any more adventurers causing trouble in the city.

But people see things, you know. I've heard about the towers burning like torches in the night; about the Borgia captains slain in front of their own people while nothing but a shadow moved in the dark; about the archers found on the rooftops with their neck ripped open by a poisonous blade. And they always say there's an impossible silhouette in these flames, when a tower crumbles and falls – something akin to an eagle, flying down right from the roof. Nobody could survive this, right? Right? But it's always the same.

And wherever a tower falls down in flames, people raise their heads. Merchant shops blossom as if they were hiding under the ground the entire time; once deserted streets become again filled with people gathering in groups, talking in normal voice instead of their usual nervous whisper. They almost dare the passing Borgia guards to come and investigate - they have seen them fought and defeated. They have a defender now.

The guards are also changed – once walking around in pride, they now hurry with their heads lowered, not daring to meet the eyes of the people. But they are also agitated and nervous, and these feelings make men violent. Every twitch in the shadows makes them jump; every sudden movement causes them to spin around, drawing the sword threateningly. Every Roman that happens to be on the way is in danger, for they are terrified for their lives and nothing makes one more aggressive. People die a bloody, messy death and their corpses decompose on the street as a stinking reminder of the power of the Borgia regime.

But there are whispers, quiet rumours in the shadows. You heard it too, mom. That if you oppose the Borgia guards and have at least a bit of skill in your hands, if you can fight them at least for a second, the assassin will come. A white-robed, hooded spirit of justice, fast like the wind and just as much untouchable. A rain of arrows will fall on your oppressors, clamour of steel will sound and they will lay bloody at your feet, with the assassin standing tall and still with his snow-white hood and Florentine cape. And he will be holding no weapon.

You should kneel then. And when he helps you up, you'll know that you shall never kneel before anyone else.

He'll take you, but only if you offer yourself. And you will be fighting alongside him – and you will know secrets that you'd never dreamt about, forgotten, forbidden knowledge of the affairs of God and men. He'll teach you how to disappear and fly, kill the kings and save the beggars, and you will call him _il Mentore, _for he is never the ruler and always the teacher. He will show you the world you never dreamt about, a world torn by wars and inequality, yet tremendously beautiful nevertheless; full of kindness, courage, and loyalty, illuminated by the light of love. He will show you the world worth saving – and then will invite you to do so.

That's what they say – the quiet whispers in the shadows.

No, mom. I haven't met him. I only saw him at the pigeon loft. But I wonder... He would have not been seen if he hadn't wished so. He didn't acknowledge my presence, didn't even look at me. But somehow... I know he realised I was there to watch him. And knowing that he allowed me to notice him is oddly flattering. And I'm beginning to think now.

What if his heathen creed – his hidden motto that is repeated only in the quietest of whispers, a shocking, terrifyingly bold declaration that _nothing is true, everything is permitted_ – is not what people think it is? Not a hedonic statement of "I do as I please", but a part of deeper philosophy. Nothing is true... but what if it only means that we are all but prisoners of our own minds, able to see only a splinter of reality, and we shouldn't declare this splinter a dogma, but rather strive for understanding more? Because there are many different takes on truth, and each and every one of them is believed correct in a mind? Everything is permitted... what if it means that the sacred laws of our society are only constructs of will, and one should not follow them blindly, but analyze its purpose and worth? For all what matters in the end is freedom. Could it be it, or am I overthinking this again, mom, romanticising a villain that terrorises the city?

I need to talk to him.

Tomorrow I'll attack the Borgia soldiers.


End file.
